Ineffability and Effort
by Surrender
Summary: Aziraphale knows it's important to make an effort to do the right thing, but Crowley has a different sort of effort in mind. AxC


**Disclaimer:** Crowley and Azirapale belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, not me. One day, I might accept this fact.

A belated birthday present for my friend, Lili; some slash! It's my first attempt at deliberate slash, so please to be excusing the suck. Hopefully, this'll get me out of my writer's block funk of doom.

Happy Birthday, Lili!

* * *

Crowley's grin was maddening, in more ways than Aziraphale cared to admit, and when he spoke, Aziraphale realized that he was much too close. 

"I do trust that you're familiar with the term 'ineffability?'" he jested.

Aziraphale felt something deep and sacred in the very, intrinsic, angelic core of him twitch.

"Well, yes, but one can't keep using that as an excuse to do just anything one pleases," he blurted. "It's not 'Oh, fancy that, I've bludgeoned an infant, must be some unexplainable part of God's mysterious plan.' In the end, the big picture will inevitably be part of the heavenly design, but that doesn't excuse one from _trying, _you know. The effort, the intent, is what really matters. One has to _try. _That's the whole point." He looked at Crowley doubtfully, as though asking 'isn't it?'

Crowley shrugged and fixed Aziraphale with a look of amusement. 

"Be that as it may," he said. "I would just like to point out that there is a very big difference between infanticide and a kiss."

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "Well."

"Isn't there?" persisted Crowley.

"Yes," snapped Aziraphale, a blush creeping up the back of his neck. "Yes, I said there is."

Crowley slid casually onto the sofa, draping a careless arm around Aziraphale's shoulders and pulling the angel toward him as if taking him into strict confidence.

"And in comparison to _your _example, a kiss certainly seems the lesser of two evils, doesn't it?"

Aziraphale's attempt to respond was thwarted as Crowley's finger traced a teasing line down the side of his neck, and his throat clamped shut. Steadying himself with a deep breath, Aziraphale gripped the demon's wrist and pulled the offending hand away.

"Be that as it may, my dear," he said, his voice strained with forced calm. "The lesser of two evils is still an evil." He shot Crowley a quick, pointed look before turning his attention to the book on his lap, if only because he didn't trust his eyes not to meet the slices of gold currently peering at him over Crowley's sunglasses. Nothing good could come of that—after six thousand years of accidental eye contact, Aziraphale knew well what it did to his resolve.

Crowley frowned. It occurred to him that it might not have been his wisest decision to grant something the title of "evil" while trying to persuade Aziraphale to do it. But, ah well, hindsight was always 20/20, wasn't it? Not that Crowley saw any point in lingering on the past. He sighed, shifting on the sofa in a slow, deliberate manner that pressed his arm flush against Aziraphale's for longer than was essentially necessary. He noted the way Aziraphale's entire body stiffened, though that might have been nothing more than annoyance.

Aziraphale noticed, then, that he had been staring determinedly at the same sentence for a good two minutes. When Crowley let out another heavy, long-suffering sigh, he glanced sideways and asked, a little irritably, 

"What are you sighing about?"

In response, Crowley scowled at him. "Nothing," he said. Aziraphale raised a meticulously groomed eyebrow. Crowley couldn't be…_pouting_, could he? It was the angel's turn to sigh as he returned his attention to his book.

"Really, dear, there's no need to mope."

This seemed to make Crowley angry. "I'm not moping," he insisted.

"Crowley—" began Aziraphale tiredly.

"Don't 'Crowley' me," said Crowley, snatching away Aziraphale's book and holding it far away from the angel as his reach would allow. "I know you—it starts with that tone of yours, and then suddenly you're all high and mighty and everything becomes a trivial little matter and I feel like I'm a bloody child."

Aziraphale covered his puzzled expression with one of expectant patience as he held out this hand. "Crowley, I really think you're over—"

He was cut off sharply as Crowley's long fingers splayed themselves over his mouth.

"I won't let you make this trivial," Crowley informed him, and it occurred to Aziraphale that he hadn't seen him so solemn since that whole situation with the Armageddon. There was no trace of a smile on his lips, no hint of the demon's usual inability to take anything seriously. "If you're going to dismiss me, then you owe me an explanation."

Since he couldn't speak, Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, as if inviting Crowley to continue.

"If it's not ineffability, then what is it?" This question caught Aziraphale off-guard, if more because of the soft, almost vulnerable way in which it was spoken than the words themselves. "What else in this great sodding world could make me want to kiss you? It's got to be ineffable, because I sure as fuck don't understand it."

For a moment, Aziraphale could do no more than simply stare at Crowley with wide, disbelieving eyes. The hand covering his mouth was removed, but he found himself at a rare and frustrating loss for words.

"Crowley," he said softly, and something inside of him hurt. It wasn't the part of him that had objected to Crowley's earlier jesting misuse of the notion of ineffability—it felt somehow _deeper, _purer. "Ineffability isn't the issue here. It's effort, remember? You have to make an effort." _An effort to do the right thing_, he meant to say, but the sentence remained unfinished.

"Oh, don't talk to me about effort," growled Crowley. "I know all about effort."

Aziraphale found himself pinned to the couch, a knee on either side of him, a very pissed demon glaring down at him.

"I've put in quite a lot of _effort_ for your sake, you know."

"A-and how is that, exactly?" Aziraphale could hear the tremor in his voice.

Crowley ducked down to crush his lips against Aziraphale's, pressing against the angel _just so_, and suddenly it clicked into place.

"Ah," said Aziraphale rather breathlessly. "Effort."

Crowley chuckled against his ear, his breath warm against the skin. Aziraphale turned his head slightly, and the sound was cut off. Maybe Crowley was right; maybe this was ineffability at work. Maybe it would all turn out to be part of the great, mysterious scheme in the end.

In the mean time, however, it was always important to make an effort.


End file.
